Three years ago today BMF and I went to Emory so he could get a biopsy to determine if he did indeed have pancreatic cancer. We had just celebrated his 46th birthday in Tybee Island. We were so clueless. This whole hospital thing was overly foreign to him. I think he had been sick just once since I’d known him and he was very aware of his body and how it should feel. He did not like what felt wrong. He was perfectly intolerant of the processes and I would spend about 6 hours convincing him he could not just get up and walk out. He wanted to smoke. He didn’t like feeling trapped. He didn’t like being scared. He just wanted to get back to his home, crank up the Unsatisfied, smoke cigarettes and feel right. 

He never felt right again after that day. 

BMF died on April 24, 2016. 

It’s not ok.